Charlotte, content to listen and enjoy the match between the bard’s words and the whispering velvet dusk, thought not for the first time how strange it was, the way intractable, incurable grief could live alongside so much that was beautiful and tranquil, that inspired and soothed; how pain and comfort did not necessarily cancel each other out, but co-existed instead.

A few days later, news of a joyous kind came to Pemberley from Hartscrane: Mrs Bingley was safely delivered of her third child, a little girl. The proud father, with two tumbling sons, was delighted to have sired a potential replica of his beloved wife, and the small boys were already fighting one another for the honour of protecting their brand-new sister from assorted imaginary dangers. Kitty, who was in residence to help Jane during her confinement, wrote in her own letter that the infant showed every sign of mirroring her mother’s looks, and that the family was united in happiness as they welcomed the new addition.

That evening, at another informal supper around the pianoforte, the party charged their glasses and drank to the health of mother and new daughter. Herr Rosenstein played a celebratory march, and Laura and Sarah paraded up and down, swinging their arms and singing a tuneless welcome to their new cousin.

The news, although bringing happiness in the main, was not without some cost to the two ladies of the house. Mrs Darcy could only sigh at the thought of what might have been, and hope for what might still come. Charlotte feared for the impression the news would have on her friend’s spirits, and found that she, too, was unsettled. The thought of a new infant stirred memories that were painful in retrospect, and she sought to banish them from her mind and support her friend.

The musician surely could not have failed to notice the lack, after several years of marriage, of any occupant of a cradle at Pemberley. But his concerned glances encompassed not only Mrs Darcy but Charlotte as well, and he played louder and longer than usual, pieces marked by their bravura and liveliness rather than yearning melodies. The girls skipped about, revelling in his performance, which allowed Lizzy and Charlotte the respite of being able first to sit thoughtful and silent, and then to talk privately under the cover of the music.

Charlotte invited her friend to speak freely, and Lizzy confessed that the news had indeed caused her mixed feelings. ‘It seems ungenerous not to feel untrammelled pleasure at such glad tidings, but I cannot help giving way to envy. Three live children in six years! What good fortune some women do have!’ And then, seeing her friend’s face: ‘Oh my dear Charlotte, forgive me! Your daughters are precious beyond price, but I spoke carelessly. You lost a child only last winter, and this news must surely scratch at that wound. I beg your pardon.’